But it was something else that did that.

The clearing and surrounding trees were lit suddenly as if by a flash of lightning that had come to ground close behind him. So bright was the light that for a moment the flames of the cooking fire were bleached out to show only the gray of charring logs. He was so surprised that he scarcely felt the points of the thrown gae bolga as they ripped across his cheek.

His two attackers backed away, blinking, their faces contorted by fear, and were turning and running for the trees when a sharp cry from behind him made Declan swing around.

The old man was holding something in his hands that shone brightly, although the light seemed to be fading from white to yellow as he watched. Beside him the boy was holding his sword at full extension as he had been instructed and the pikeman, his weapon already dropping to the ground, was backing away, clutching at his shoulder and whimpering with pain. The robber turned quickly and, still dazzled by the old man's strange light, he too stumbled toward the shelter of the trees. The battle, it seemed, was over and won.

Declan replaced his axe in its harness and tried to keep from staggering with weakness as he strode back to the wagon. Relief made his voice harsher than he had intended.

"Pleased I am to see that you fared well, old man," he said. "But you, boy, you should have aimed and stuck that pikeman in the chest or belly. He wanted to take your life, and you gave him another chance to do it someday…"

"I do not take life," the boy interrupted, his voice almost strident with anger. "I am a healer."

"Even a stupid apprentice healer," said Declan scornfully, "must continue to live if he hopes to practice the high art."

"Enough," the boy replied, glaring up at him. "Your cheek is opened, the blood is flowing and the edges of the wound will need to be pulled together. I promise you, our ragged and uncouth guardian, that the work will be neater and you will feel less pain if you curb your unmannerly tongue."